


Sammy and the Ink Machine

by Doceo_Percepto



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Ink-Drinking, Other, Vomit, maximum lack of effort, mild sexual content?, there's your one line summary folks, this entire story is literally just Sammy drinking ink and getting hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 20:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17710772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto
Summary: The walls whisper to Sammy Lawrence and for some reason he thinks listening is a good idea.





	Sammy and the Ink Machine

It was deep in the night, while Sammy sat hunched at his desk scribbling music notes, that the walls first whispered to him.  

He heard them sigh his name, and his hand froze mid-note. An ink blot beaded beneath the pen’s tip.

Nobody should be here. He’d worked late to avoid the distractions of coworkers in and out of his office. But still something had spoken to him. Yet they had no human voice, no human syllables - even so, he was certain they had spoken his name. 

He listened. He listened so intently that his ears rang. The machine in the walls pumped in a soothing, hypnotic rhythm. Somewhere distantly he heard an echoing _plink. plink, plink_ , of ink dripping. There was something reassuring about it, he thought. 

Most importantly, he heard no footsteps, no further voices. 

He looked down, and swore at the ink staining the neat measure he had outlined.

No more whispers interrupted him. Not that night.

 

 

He didn’t think any more about it, not until he was in the recording studio several days later, guiding the faltering band through his latest song, feeling ragged with exhaustion and irritation at their idiocy. It was then that the walls whispered again, quiet as a light breeze through trees, and yet it spoke louder than all the band in full swing, louder than his complaints.

 He halted, mid-criticism. That voice. That whisper. From where did it come?

“Sammy?” The trumpeter leaned forward. “Sammy, you with us here?” 

Sammy snapped back to reality. “And you,” Sammy threw up his hands, “The point of the trumpet isn’t to drown out the rest of the band! If you don’t understand _mezzo_ , then do _pianissimo_ , or is that nonsense to you, too?” 

The practice continued, but this time, Sammy’s thoughts lingered on the voice. 

  

 

He stayed late at the studio that night - not because he had to, but because… he wasn’t sure. But for something. Some reason. (Those whispers). 

(Maybe they were trying to say something to him.) 

Simple curiosity, that is why he stayed, nothing more. But he lingered late, scribbling out music notes, and there was nothing but the soft thumping of the machine and the scratch of pen on paper. His desk lamp, which was perhaps towards the end of its life, sputtered intermittently and emitted a weak buzzing noise throughout the evening. Sammy headed home sometime after one AM, to an empty apartment and the sense he had missed out on something.

 

 

The third time, he was in the break room, hunched moodily over his coffee while Wally - who knew damn well he wasn’t listening - rambled on about something or the other his daughter had done. 

_Sammy_ , it whispered, if not in syllables then in intent.

He was alert immediately, on edge. More. He wanted more. Where was it coming from? It was all around him; it was inside him. It didn’t seem to come to any one source, not identifiable in any way a human normally identified sounds. Its very touch upon his mind spoke of something unnatural, something… malevolent, perhaps, but something with a very very keen interest in him. 

The word supernatural crossed his mind. A word he once would have laughed at. But there was a strange tickle in his chest, an almost childish giddiness that he had not felt in a long, long time - the world had worked him into a jaded cynicism, but this voice, it whispered suggestions of something so beautiful _different_. He ached for it to speak again. 

“Sammy?” Wally interjected, and Sammy nearly snarled in response. Wally, interfering again.

“What?”

“It’s just, you didn’t respond at all to hearing-"

“Do I ever?” Sammy sneered.

Wally shrugged. “Normally I get an eye roll or that frustrated snort that means you're fed up with listening.” 

_Sammy._ Yes, that. That!

“You okay?” Wally frowned.

“Do you hear that?” Sammy asked frantically.

Wally’s eyes roved around the break room, employees chattering left and right and all around. “Uhh.”

No. If he had, he’d know exactly what Sammy was talking about. The voice wanted only him. It chose him.

Sammy shoved away from the table. 

“Wait, where ya goin’?” Wally called after him. Sammy didn’t answer. 

He followed the voice, drifting past follow employees like they were statues. Hardly noticing them. If asked how he knew where to go, he’d have no answer. He just knew. It led him, somehow. 

It led him to a room that was most often left locked, behind which the Ink Machine lurked. This time, when Sammy tried the knob, it gave easily. Hypnotized, he let the machine draw him in. It loomed far over his head, suspended on chains and lazily swaying by fractions. The movement gave the illusion of life. 

This, he knew immediately, was the source of the whispers. It revulsed him, initially. The Ink Machine was a product of Joey Drew’s deranged mind, and there was no good blood between Joey and Sammy. The last thing Sammy wanted was for some creation of Joey’s to be whispering to him. But this thing… he couldn't be reviled by it. He could only love it. Wholly. Consumingly. 

What was he thinking?  This was a machine - a machine that made ink, for god’s sakes, what was wrong with him? 

But he couldn't help it, no more than he could help the sun rising each morning and setting each night. Something had reached into him, cranked his emotions to pure devotion, and hammered that in. 

He wished he could get closer to the machine, but an abyss blocked him from touching it. He wished it would whisper to him again.

“What are you doing in here?” An exclamation. Joey. The man himself scurried in like some lopsided bug, flapping his arms about. “This room is off-limits, Sammy, can’t you _read_?”

“Tell me about the machine.”

“What? This machine has nothing to do with you. Your job, Sammy Lawrence, is to make _music_ ,” Joey shoved at Sammy. “Now why don’t you back to your desk and do just that, yes?”

As he shuffled out, Joey muttered, “it didn’t even turn out right anyway. The thing doesn’t work, Sammy; you stay away from it.”

 

 

Sammy was not so dumb as to immediately return to the Ink Machine, especially when Joey seemed to be hawking over it like the owner of a very, very dangerous pet. But his curiosity was more than piqued. The machine hadn’t turned out like planned, Joey had said. Sammy found himself oddly anthropomorphizing the machine: imagining it turning out different out of willful stubbornness. Perhaps it didn’t like Joey any more than anybody else. Perhaps it turned out different to spite him. 

But that was silly. A silly idea he’d never entertain… if not for the fact the machine spoke to him. 

He was sure of it, now. Something was speaking to him, and that something pumped in the walls. That something was alive, and spanned the entire studio. 

Sammy waited for his chance. Joey Drew stayed late nearly every day, and often it felt like a game of outlasting - Sammy waiting for Joey to leave; Joey waiting for Sammy to leave. The Music Director doubted that was the reality of what was happening: Joey had better things to do than hang around paying attention to whether Sammy was there or not. Still, he never left before the Music Director, not for several weeks.

Then, at last, the night finally came that he passed Sammy’s desk (as it was on the way to the exit), waved a tired goodbye, and left.

Sammy could barely contain himself. He waited several minutes at his desk, heart pounding, to see if Joey might return. When he didn’t, Sammy went to the exit, as if he might find Joey somewhere lurking in the shadows. He even opened the studio door, looked outside, and then locked it. 

Alone. Yes, absolutely alone.

 It was as if in a dream that he wandered through the walls, with one destination in mind. He creaked open the door, and slipped into the room. The lights were off; he let the door shut behind him, sealing in the darkness. 

He was not sure how long he stood there, suffused with its power and its presence, though he could not see it. 

Then…. oh, then it graced him. _They_ graced him - for the machine, or the entity in the machine - they were no _it_. They entered his mind, and whispered. 

  
They didn’t speak in clearly defined words. They weren’t capable of it - Sammy didn’t know how he knew that, but he was certain of it. They whispered softly in his head, lilting murmurings that, wordless and incomprehensible, somehow formed impressions in his mind. These impressions _surpassed_ words. They were like, he thought privately, _music._ Gone was any confusion brought forth by communication: what one word might mean or another; what might be misinterpreted, what might be misheard. Their susurrations were emotion, sensation, pure experience captured neatly without the restraint of physical language. 

Music, yes.

All that night, Sammy stood and swayed and listened their whisperings. 

He let them in, until dawn broke and filtered through the holes in the ceiling, and until the usual clamoring and jabbering of the work day began. Then, quietly, he slipped out and closed the door, telling no one.

 

 

The waiting began again. Waiting for Joey to leave first, so that he would not catch Sammy sneaking off to the machine. This became commonplace. Sammy sometimes left on time, just since it would be unusual to _always_ stay late, especially given his openly cynical attitude towards his work, but most times, he was too eager and hopeful. He visited the machine a few more times, each time basking in their terrifying, immense presence, and reveling in their words. 

Then, one night well after midnight, they conveyed something new. They conveyed…. An order. 

Order seemed like the wrong sort of word, but suggestion was too soft. Yet again, words failed to capture them. The truth was somewhere in between. They spoke expecting him to obey. In fact, his obedience was not a question at all. The mere _idea_ of disobedience was a foreign, unheard of thing. But neither was it a direct order. A plea, maybe - they wanted him to do this thing very very much. He felt their longing. He longed with them, ached with them.

“What would you have me do?” He whispered to the walls one night, again in the solitude and darkness. He was never truly alone, anymore. Not while he was here.  

The longing increased. It felt both awful and good. It made him want, and ache, and yet it made him inexplicably sad. Before he knew what he was doing, he had gone to the Ink Machine, leaned as far over the abyss as he could, and let a small amount of ink drip into his coffee cup. 

Never would he have considered ink appetizing before. It’s not an idea he would ever have remotely entertained. But now, there seemed like nothing better. He couldn’t imagine disobeying. Disobeying wasn’t even a question. More than that, he _wanted_ this. 

“It will poison me,” he murmured, resisting the very powerful urge to bring the cup to his lips. “Is this what you want?”

There was no doubt. He felt electric, as if on the verge of some immense pleasure - Sammy’s knuckles tightened on the cup when he realized he was getting hard. 

He had to obey.

Sammy curled his fingers around the bottom of the cup, and tilted it up. Black sludge flowed past his lips; the acerbic taste nearly had him choking it right back out, but - this is what they wanted. What it wanted. He wanted only to make it happy. He gladly let the foul-tasting substance slide down his throat, and he licked the black staining the mug, too. He was oddly panting, still hard, but the voice was silent.  

“Please,” he said softly, unsure even of what he wanted or needed. They didn’t answer. He forced himself to stand. He wouldn't touch himself. Maybe that order came from the walls; maybe not, but he was sure it was the right choice.

He left the studio, dazed and pleased, overwhelmed with the powerful sense that he had done _right_. He had done good.

That evening, he woke up from a restless sleep to run to the bathroom and vomit up everything he had drank. His sense returned enough for him to wonder what the hell he had done and why. 

He thought, he was crazy. He was insane. Listening to what the _walls_ had told him.. Drinking ink on their command… He couldn't tell anyone, and the whole business had to end. 

But as soon as he stepped into the studio, his resolve shattered. The machine thudded pleasantly, suddenly not at all bothering him, suddenly like a heartbeat encasing him, welcoming him home. Warm, soothing, hypnotic. He wanted to please them again. He wanted to do _better_. 

He forgot all intention of staying away. He gathered candles (that’s what they wanted), and one night painted a circle in ink - a circle that he had never seen before in his life, but the machine impressed upon him the means to create it. Once created, it too emitted a sense of power, of evil. 

With great excitement and obedience, he filled a line of cups with ink. 

Since that first night, he had regularly drank the substance, generally at night, but with increasing frequency, during the day, too, mixed in with his coffee. He hadn’t felt truly physically well in weeks. He didn’t want to. The prospect of consuming so much of the liquid… it had him shaking. Chills skated up and down his arms. The little hairs on his arms stood on end. 

Sammy knelt, in the very middle of the circle as they commanded. He undid his pants, and tugged free his hard member. After this, he did not touch it. It had just ached, straining against his zipper, but he didn’t want to do anything to himself that the walls didn’t want him to do. 

The circle, and the candles… all of it made him feel so alive. So beautiful, if he dared admit that arrogance in front of them. He hoped they found him appealing.

He reached from the ink. His stomach churned, trained now to know what it was going to get. 

“This is for you,” he whispered.

_Bendy,_ the machine finally formed a definite word. Sammy twitched in shock. Bendy. The cartoon demon. At first, a furl of revulsion. Sammy didn’t like the cartoons, liked the songs he produced for it hardly more. He’d held no fondness for that character. 

_Bendy_ , they insisted, though gently, as if guiding a lost, dumb sheep back to the flock. 

“Bendy,” he agreed, and felt an accompanying shiver. Whatever they were, they were different than the Bendy of the cartoons. That he was sure of. 

His fingers clenched around the glass, stained with black. He brought it to his lips. The foul taste flowed over his tongue; his body gagged, inherently rejected what it knew was horrible for it, and Sammy fought down his instinctive reaction. He forced down swallow after swallow, euphoria pooling in his mind. He nearly moaned. His arousal felt so thick and heavy, settled on the fly of his undone trousers.  

The first glass was empty. He was so relieved he had brought more, upon their request. He grabbed the second, and eagerly downed it, this time quickly, impatiently, as if determined to bring harm to himself. His stomach roiled and clenched. Sammy had to grit his teeth together and tilt his head up to restraint the abrupt but very intense impulse to vomit. Repeatedly his organs were trying to expel their contents, clenching, ink surging up his esophagus - Sammy swallowed. Breathed carefully through his nose. He had to do this. 

He reached for the third glass. Another surge of viscous vomit tickling the back of his throat; he forced it down with a sip of ink. Then another, another. He had to. For the voice. For the walls. For the machine. For Bendy. Whatever they asked of him. 

Soon the third - and last - glass was finished. Nausea had settled like a fat insect in his stomach. His teeth were stained with ink, the flavor burned into his tongue. His gasps filled the room. It hurt. It felt all twisted up inside him, slimy and wrong - his body rejected it intently, demanded he spit it back up. 

“For you, for you,” he whispered. The walls hummed in approval. He thrived in their praise, reveled in it. It was all he needed. All he wanted. He felt like they were wrapped tightly around him, embracing him warmly, welcoming him like he truly belonged. His cock throbbed. He wanted to suffer more for them. He wanted to be whatever they wanted. Anything to make them happy. And they seemed very much to like him hurting. 

Licking his lips, Sammy stuffed himself back into his pants with trembling hands. He zipped his trousers back up, leaving a thick bulge that rubbed painfully on fabric. They seemed to like this, too; the humming resonated under his skin and in his chest. It only urged him on, made him wish to do more - 

On impulse, he collapsed to all fours, bowing his head low. Whatever they were, they must be a deity of some sort - he hoped worship pleased them. What he had failed to account for was how his stomach would take to the new position. As soon as he opened his mouth to offer words of praise, a single small burp started a series of disgusting gags that sent the very ink he’d just consumed spewing across the floor. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, once it stopped. “I’m sorry, I-“ Another strangled gag, another disgusting sticky wave of ink.

_Amusement._ Sudden, vivid, and powerful. It was the first true sense of them with an emotion he could truly recognize, apart from its approval and disapproval. 

He licked an ink-slick tongue over his lips, a trail of saliva and ink connecting his lips to the floor. He felt pathetic. But they - they were amused. They liked it. Hot shame scrawled across his cheeks, but part of him reveled. Yes, amusement at his expense was not flattering. But it did mean they were pleased, and wasn’t that why he was doing all these things in the first place? 

He bowed low, trying not to gag afresh from the smell of his own vomit. 

He would do this again, he knew. This and much worse. 


End file.
